


After the War

by Idiot_with_a_flame_thrower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Kingsley just wants to help, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Deathly Hallows, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Sick Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11361900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idiot_with_a_flame_thrower/pseuds/Idiot_with_a_flame_thrower
Summary: In the months that followed Lord Voldemort’s defeat, unable to cope with his guilt over all the lives that were lost, and the heavy weight that rests on his shoulders to help the wizarding world get back on its feet, Harry Potter finds himself breaking apart in more ways than one, and now it’s up to his closest friends to put him back together.





	1. On the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

_Harry Potter sat on a wall_

_Harry Potter had a great fall_

_All of his Family and all of his friends_

_Had to put Harry, together again_

Harry Potter was losing it. Or at least, he felt that way. It had been two months since he’d defeated Voldemort, and during that time both his physical and mental well-being were starting to go downhill. Combining the lack of sleep and loss of appetite with the occasional spurs of gut wrenching panic, had left him thin, pale, and unsteady on his feet. In his head, he felt as if he were balancing on the edge of sanity, with the already brittle ground crumbling out from under him as he watched unable to pull himself back; with one strong gust of wind he could tumble into an abyss filled with blinding pain and uninhibited anger. The anger was what really scared him. Anger at himself because he had failed. Failed to stop the war sooner. Failed to save those he loved. And beneath that surface layer, there was deeper, _harsher_ anger. An anger that lay with those around him. Those who expected him to be strong; to be brave. Those who wanted him to put on a mask and reassure everyone else, all the people that were still reeling from the tragedies of war. Even when Harry himself was just as lost and broken as they were.

As much as he loathed to admit it, there were some days... Days that were dark and cold. Days where the expectations were too high, and the pangs of guilt were too much. On those days Harry found that more than anything, he longed to fall into that abyss; to take one slight step and tumble all the way down. It would be frighteningly easy. To let all his emotions break free, flooding out of him in a cleansing wave, until there was nothing left inside. He wanted to scream and shout until his lungs were raw and his voice went hoarse. He wanted to punch something until his knuckles bled; Bang his forehead on the wall until his skull cracked open and thoughts went black. Couldn’t any of these people see that? Didn’t they care? His mind was melting in his head, bubbling up and over-flowing until he drowned in his own thoughts. And what did they do? Ask him to plaster on a smile and pretend. To just hold on- hold on, for a few more days. Just few more interviews. A few more funerals...

“Just a few more hours Harry,” Kingsley Shacklebolt had whispered to him just two weeks ago. They were posing together for a photo at the ceremonial opening of the new ministry of magic, one of Kingsley’s hands grasping Harry’s own, while the other rested firmly on his shoulder, anchoring him to the moment as if the new minister knew just how close Harry had been to falling off that edge. Harry knew it must have been because Kingsley was feeling the same, both of their faces held fake smiles and tired eyes, though, Kingsley’s was slightly more practiced than Harry’s, but he supposed that was a skill gained after years of dealing with a man like Cornelius Fudge. After that, they had been pushed into separate directions by the masses and forced to mingle, greeting person after person; a few reporters, some new ministry officials, and then a handful of civilians that simply wanted to shake his hand and thank him for saving them all. And every so often, when Harry started to feel the gnawing urge to run away, to hide, Kingsley would make his way back to him with gentle- _real_ smile, and quietly say; “just a few hours Harry, that’s all. A few more hours and you can go home.” Harry would always nod his head and with a slightly forced smile, go back to mingling, mindlessly nodding along to what was probably a rather thrilling tale about (Needle point?) that the older man he was stand beside was telling him, his thoughts wandering back to Kingsley’s words. _A few more hours and you can go home._ Home. And wasn’t that just a laugh. Harry didn’t have a bloody home. Not a real one…  Nowhere he belonged. He had thought, once, that that the Burrow could have been his home. Someplace he was welcome and loved. But ever since the war- ever since Fred, going to the Burrow began to remind Harry in some ways of his trip to Godrics hollow. A feeling of something not quite being right seemed to shroud the place whenever Harry was around.

<>O<>

Right after the war, both Harry and Hermione had gone with the Weasleys back to the Burrow to stay for a while, the two of them bunking up in Ron’s room, craving the closeness they’d grown accustomed to all those weeks together hunting horcruxes. But by the end of the first week, despite Ron’s reassurance to the contrary, Harry began to feel that his presence was more of a painful reminder to the family than anything else. George hadn’t spoken one word to him since they’d buried Fred, along with Remus and Tonks and all the rest of the deceased. Harry was glad for it. If George did speak to him, he didn’t know what he could possibly say to the man. How do you talk to someone who lost their twin because of you? Hell, Harry couldn’t even look at him without seeing Fred’s lifeless eyes staring back, blaming him for all the pain he’d caused.

Dealing with Mrs. Weasley wasn’t any easier. She had spent the first three days back at the burrow crying her heart out, going around and making sure that she tightly hugged everyone goodnight at least once before allowing them to go to bed. Just to make sure that they were alive and well. The first night back she must have told Harry and Ron both good night at least five times each, the teary hugs she gave them damping their shirts so much they had to change them again before they could sleep.

Mr. Weasley was slightly better. At least, he didn’t burst out into tears when asked if he wanted sugar for his tea. But whenever Harry met his eye, they held a pain that Harry didn’t think he’d ever see in the man. His eyes were those of a man that had lost something very dear to him… A man who’d lost a son.

Then there was Ginny. Harry had always thought on some subconscious level, all those weeks traveling around with Ron and Hermione, that after the war, everything between them could go back to the way it had been. But each time he thought he had found the courage to broach the topic, he’d take one look at her and all he could see was Fred. Shaking his head and telling him back off before he hurt another member of his family. Now he didn’t know what they were. Those first few nights they would hold one another as they shook with unshed tears, then in the morning, they would barely speak. She’d go off to help her mother, while Harry followed Ron and Hermione around doing whatever menial task had been asked of them. There was one day when the three of them just sat in the garden silently watching for hours as the sun rose into the sky and then slowly lowered back down again.

As for the other Weasleys: Bill, Charlie, and even Percy. Being around them had become almost unbearable. Whenever Harry found himself in the same room with any of them it felt as though they were miles apart, with all the small talk and smiles that never quite reached any of their eyes. And the looks they gave him when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. Harry could tell they blamed him for the loss of their brother. And he knew that any anger they felt towards him was justified; if anyone should be there, under that roof, sharing their meals… If anyone had a _right_ to be there, it was Fred. Not him. He had no right to take a place in a family that wasn’t his. And the fact that they wouldn’t just out-right say it to his face had started to drive Harry a little mad.

So, on the eight night there, after Harry had assured that everyone had retired to their rooms, he stuck a note on Ron’s door telling him not to worry, and then careful as to not wake his sleeping friends, he made his way downstairs. It was somewhat reminiscent of that night not so long ago, when both Mad-eye and Hedwig had lost their lives, and George his ear. Except, this time, Ron and Hermione wouldn’t stop him. There was no mission that needed completing, no war he had to fight. It was just him, doing what he knew was best for everyone. For Harry, every day spent there left him followed around the Fred’s ghost, watching him taking his place. And for the Weasleys… They didn’t need him there. They had more than enough on their plates without his issues added to the mix, and… they’d already done so much for him. _Lost_ so much for him. Harry couldn’t ask any more of them. Silently closing the door behind him, Harry made his way to the outer limits, far enough away so as not to disturb anyone, and he apparated away.

<>O<>

Two wrong apparitions later; one that lead him to a bathroom stall in a small oriental restaurant and another to the broom closet of a rundown auto shop. Harry stumbled onto a dark suburban street, lit only by a single flickering lamp. Pulling himself to his feet, Harry dusted the dirt off his pants, and then in a very unsteady manner, wobbled down passing house after house until he made it to the one he’d been looking for, the only place he had left, given to him after his godfather’s death: Number Twelve Grimmauld place.

A month and a half after that, as Harry, tiredly walked down the same street after what had definitely been much more than ‘just a few more hours’ of mingling at the ministry opening- made his way inside the old house, wandered up the stairs past the hideous wall of decapitated house-elves, dropping himself onto the bed in still cobwebbed room that he’d been keeping his things in; Closed his eyes, letting the shrieks of Walburga Black's portrait downstairs serve as a white-noise while he drifted off into a night of fitful sleep, his last thoughts were of how this old museum of a building, filled with more dust and long forgotten memories then most crypts, would always be more of a prison, than a home. It had been used long ago, by Walburga Black to keep her sons in line. Then by the Order, to keep Harry’s godfather Sirius Black, safely squared away. And now it was used by Harry himself; as a place to hide from the world and all its problems, leaving only when asked personally by Kingsley. Or when he was annoyingly forced out by Ron and Hermione. And, on one memorable occasion, when Professor McGonagall showed up and asked him to tea at a small shop a few blocks away. However, Harry found that as the weeks went by, the excursions out were growing few and far between, a mere two months and things with the ministry were finally smoothing out, there were no more funerals to attend. Though, there were still memorials being held almost weekly, and, as ‘The-boy-who-lived’, he always made an appearance, more out of duty than desire- so many people had lost their lives, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever be able to remember who most of them were no matter how many members of their families he met. The growing isolation only served to make his current residence even more prison-like than before.

One factor that played a large part in his isolation, was that his friends had stopped trying to force him out into society all the time; Mostly due to his increasing stubbornness, and their fading will to argue with him. “He just needs a little time” he hears Ron tell Hermione one day when they think he’s asleep, his voice sounding as exhausted as Harry feels. “He just needs some time away from everything.” “How much time Ron? What if- what if-?" Hermione’s voice trailed off, leaving Harry to wonder ‘what if’ what?.

After Harry’s first week living at Grimmauld place, (once Hermione had thoroughly yelled at him for disappearing in the middle of the night, panicking everyone at the burrow leading almost into a manhunt until Percy blessedly noticed Harry’s note stuck to the bottom of Ron’s shoe) Ron and Hermione had made the effort for at least one (if not both) of them to visit him for several hours every. single. day. Bringing him both company and food. Apparently, neither of his friends quite trusted Kreacher to provide adequate meals. In all honesty, if it hadn’t been for Ron’s family needing him at home, Harry figured that the two more than likely would have just moved in.

<>O<>

At some point, during their visits, Harry’s friends occasionally started bringing a third visitor with them.

Sometimes it would be Mrs. Weasley, (She doesn’t cry as much these days) who always comes with a basket full of food and a couple of dozen remarks on how underweight Harry was starting to look- she means well, but Harry is always relieved when she finally heads home, giving him a warm hug and soft reminder to look after himself.

Occasionally, the extra visitor that shows up is Luna Lovegood, who just talks with Harry in one of the drawing rooms, yammering on about this creature and that- Harry likes her visits, she never asks him to many questions, though there are times when he can feel her looking at him, like he’s some small _broken_ thing that she can’t quite figure out how to fix. On those days, Harry likes to disappear into one of the upstairs bedrooms and pretend he can’t hear his friends calling his name.

There were a few times that Ron brought Neville Longbottom over, he rather liked spending time with Harry in the library, though, just like Mrs. Weasley, he tends to make quite a few comments on how sickly Harry was starting to look; three days after Neville’s first visit Harry received a package from him, sent via Ron’s owl Pigwidgion, that contained four small vials of nutrition potions that he urged Harry to take. The potions could apparently be made with very few ingredients and little to no work; not long after, Hermione started making them on her own, kindly ‘urging’ that Harry take at least one a day. Harry wanted to argue that he didn’t _need_ the potion, but when he went to open his mouth Hermione leveled him with a glare that was worthy of the late Severus Snape himself- Harry didn’t try to argue after that.

After the first couple of times, all of these extra visitors started to bother Harry more and more, not that he minded the company, he didn’t- he enjoyed hearing them talk about this and that, it felt normal. But it was the way they treated him. It wasn’t the same way the ministry treated him, the way all those people that so very much needed him to be their guiding light in these dark times treated him; like it was his job to be okay- for their sakes. In fact, it was the opposite. All of these visitors treated him the same way the Luna looked at him; like he was broken. Like he needed people around to look after him, to make sure he was eating, getting out and about, talking to people. To watch him and be ready in case he finally went over that edge- or, to be ready _when_ he finally went over that edge. And as a result, he was always left feeling torn between being happy there were people around that cared for him, that wanted him to be well- and angry, because he didn’t need to have people take care of him.

The only person who surprisingly, didn’t leave him feeling like this was Ginny. Barring Ron and Hermione, Ginny probably visited the most. Her visits are nice because she never tries to get him to go out like Hermione and Ron do. She also doesn’t mention his health- in fact, she rarely talks to him at all. When she comes, she just she immediately goes off to find Harry, checking his bedroom first, then the other rooms Harry tends to keep himself to; the library, the drawing room with the Black family tapestry on the wall, and the kitchen. Once she’s found him, she silently drags him to the closest couch and makes him sit down beside her. Then with more care and gentleness then Harry has ever thought possible from another human being, she reaches over and takes his hand in hers, and begins to rub small circles on across the back of it- always ignoring the words _I must not tell lies_ that had been cut into his right-hand years ago by Umbridge’s cursed quill.

Perhaps, because of the lack of sleep he’s had since the war, or maybe just because he’s relaxed by her presence, he starts to drift off; it becomes a pattern that the most sleep he gets these days, which is still only two to three hours straight, always happens when she visits. Which is sort of good he thinks, the dark bags under his eyes did seem to be getting more and more prominent, which made it harder to pretend they weren’t there.

<>O<>

Today had been a Ginny visit. At around five in the afternoon she had found him reading an old copy of Quibbler in his favorite drawing room. As always, she sat down beside him, rubbing his hand, this time as he idly watched Hermione and Ron mess around with the Piano on the other side of the room. His eyes slowly falling shut as he listened to the soft tune of Heart and Soul.

Harry doesn’t exactly know what happens after he falls asleep, or maybe he’s just too embarrassed to find out. But whenever he wakes up, he’s always been moved upstairs and tucked into bed; usually with Ron or Hermione sitting somewhere in the room, and Ginny nowhere to be seen. This time, Harry woke up to find that he was alone. Grabbing his glasses from the nightstand beside him, he saw that there were two empty mugs sitting on one of the rooms end tables, and an opened book on one of the arm chairs. He hasn’t asked, but Harry thinks the reason that his friends continue to stand vigil as he sleeps might be because of his history with nightmares. Thankfully, nightmares are one of the only things that _haven’t_ plagued him since the war ended. On the other hand, Harry found that along with an absence of nightmares, he seemed to have stop dreaming altogether. He’d debated mentioning this to Hermione, but there was this voice somewhere in the back of his head that warned him against it.

Looking out at the orange clouds of sunset visible through the window, Harry realized that he must have been asleep for hours. Guessing that his friends had probably gone downstairs for dinner, Harry quickly pulled himself out of bed, swing his feet on to the ground, the act leaving him a winded and lightheaded as he attempted to stand, having to grab onto the bed’s headboard to hold himself steady. Not good. Harry knew that he’d been neglecting his health, as his friends never seemed to quit reminding him. But this was getting out of hand. It seemed to Harry, that even the simplest of things were leaving him weak these days. Whether it was physical exertion, or magical; four nights prior, Harry had been down in the kitchen making some tea to try to help him get some sleep, and he had pulled out his wand to place a simple cooling charm on the mug only to find his vision growing dark. He’d had barely enough time to set the tea down on the table before his eyes rolled back in his head and his body fell rather ungracefully to the floor. Ron found him the next day still passed out on the floor at one in the afternoon and it had taken almost an hours’ worth of arguing to convince him not to tell Hermione, and even then, Ron hadn’t looked convinced. But, he did concede. Telling Harry though that if it happened again, Hermione _would_ find out. And _Harry_ would be the one that has to tell her.

Once his head felt more solid, and his breathing wasn’t reminiscent of a plague victim, Harry slipped on his shoes and then, slowly, managed to make his way down to the ground floor. He then stopped just short of the partially closed dining room door -a room once used to hold the secret meetings of the Order of the Phoenix, when he heard the raised voices of Ron and Hermione coming from the other side, along with several other voices he recognized, and one or two he didn’t. What are all of these people doing here? Harry wondered. He debated throwing open the door and demanding just that, but in the state he was in currently, he didn’t imagine it would be as effective as he would like. So, he opted to eavesdrop instead.

“This is bloody Ballocks!” Ron’s voice shouted, much louder than any of the other occupants. Harry could hear anger in his words.

“Now Ron,” Kingsley’s voice placated, “I know that you don’t like it-”

Another voice cut him off- “Oh course he doesn’t like it!” Hermione cutting off Kingsley? What?

Ron’s voice broke through again taking on a desperate tone; “Dad please, tell them!”

“I’m afraid that I agree Kingsley kids” Mr. Weasley? Harry hadn’t seen him since he’d left the Burrow. “It might not seem like it, but they’re only trying to help.”

“Quite right,” said a man’s voice that Harry didn’t recognize. “We only have Mr. Potter’s best interests in mind.”

 _What the hell are they talking about?_ Harry wondered, inching forwards to see if he could get a better look in. He couldn’t see either of his friends, nor Kingsley and Mr. Weasley, but he could see what he assumed was the backside of the man who had just been speaking, and as well as a woman that Harry failed to recognize either.

Ron started to laugh. “His best interests? What a load of crap! If any you cared about what’s best for him then you’d know that it’s us!”

Hermione ‘harrumphed’ in agreement. “The point is _minister_ ” she said with an air of sarcasm, “Harry. Is staying. Here.”

Kingsley let out a sigh, “I’m sorry Hermione, but that just isn’t going happen. It’s been two months and he’s not getting any better, in fact every time I see him he looks worse! It’s obvious he’s not sleeping like he should, and I’m not even going to get into all the weight he has lost- the boy needs help; and keeping him _here_ isn’t doing him any favors.”

“You want him to get help? Fine! We’ll take him to a mindhealer! You want him out of this place? We’ll take him back to the Burrow! Just don’t take him away!” by the end Ron’s voice was breaking so much Harry almost couldn’t hear the last part.

Harry heard shuffling from the other side of the door, then Mr. Weasley’s spoke in a tone so soft that Harry had to strain to hear him.

“It’s not going to be forever Ronald, just until he gets better. And then he can come home- Happy and healthy.”

Harry didn’t know what Ron’s response was, maybe he gave some form of non-verbal agreement, but the next voice that spoke up was that of the woman who Harry didn’t know.

“In order for us to detain a patient involuntarily, we need to have the signature of someone who takes responsibility as their guardian” She said, her voice shrill. “And seeing as Mr. Potter has no close relatives, the Minister had suggested that it be one of you two.”

 “One of us?” Hermione asked cautiously, “What exactly would that mean?”

“It means that you would be the ones in charge of Harry’s care. You would be free to visit him without the restrictions usually placed on non-family members, in emergency’s you would get the final say in his treatment; and, if you decide that you no longer think that Saint Mungo’s is the best place for him, you would be allowed to have him released into your custody.” Kingsley told her.

“And…” Hermione’s voice wavered “And we could take him out- whenever we decided?”

“Hermione! You can’t actually be considering-! We can’t do that to him!”

“I-What else can we do Ron? I don’t- I don’t know how to help him.”

Harry didn’t want to hear what happened next. He couldn’t. His friends were going to send him away! Kingsley wanted to lock him up! Sure, he wasn’t coping as well as he could be, but it wasn’t like he was crazy! He wasn’t drooling on the floor, he wasn’t planning on offing himself anytime soon. It’s not like he’s losing sleep on purpose! He just- he can’t. Every time he closes his eyes he sees their faces. The faces of all the people who died because of him. And when he wakes from sleep it’s _always_ to their screams. He’s doing the best that he can! Why can’t they see that! He’s held up his mask, played the role of savior for them, done everything they asked! All these past weeks he’s held on! Is that what this is? Now that they don’t need him around to shake hands and pose for photos.. they want to hide him away? Lock him up and throw away the key? No! They can’t do this! They- they wouldn’t- Ron wouldn’t!

With his thoughts racing and new-found adrenalin rushing through him, Harry ran back up to his room. He pulled an empty backpack out of the closet and shoved a couple shirts down into it. Going over to his old school trunk that was resting against the wall, used these past weeks as a make-shift dresser, he pulled out a few pairs of pants and trousers. Finally, he went over to the nightstand next to his bed, in the top draw were the last three things he needed. His wand, his wallet, and folded up neatly beside them; his invisibility cloak. Shoving his wallet into his pocket, and keeping his wand in his hand, he threw his invisibility cloak over his head and as quickly and silently as he could, made his way back down to the ground floor, past the dining room, and swiftly out the front door. As soon as he made it past the building’s wards, he held out his wand and with fleeting prayer that his magic not fail him, apparated away.


	2. Hiding Away

After the War: Chapter two. Hiding away.

By the grace of whatever powers that be, the apperation worked. Though he was left feeling lightheaded with his body aching so much that it felt like he’d just played three games of Quidditch. A quick glance confirmed to Harry not only had he managed to apperate without splicing himself (a possibility that probably should have crossed his mind sooner), ha had also reached the correct destination: Number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Home to Harry’s aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Dursley. One of the last places Harry thought that anyone would think to go looking for him at. The contempt he held for his relatives thanks to a lifetimes worth of neglect was well known to both Ron and Hermione, and he just hoped that once his friends discovered his absence, just knowing his history would be enough to deter them even thinking that Harry might use the place as a possible refuge.

Harry would admit, that hiding out with his relatives was…. Less than ideal. But in the seconds before he’d disapperated from Grimmauld place, all he’d been thinking of was finding somewhere safe, and familiar. Logically, he probably should have gone somewhere else. Anywhere else. In his rush to get away, he hadn’t really given much thought to where he would go, he just knew that he would need a place where he could hide for a bit. At least until he could come up with a better plan that consisted of more than just running away.

In all honesty, upon the realization that hiding out at his Aunt and Uncle’s would mean having to actually _spend time_ with his Aunt and Uncle, he debated turning tail and running in the opposite direction. Not that he didn’t _want_ to see his relatives… more so that he _really_ didn’t want to see his relatives -let alone have to deal with coming up with an explanation for his arrival. He had no doubt in his mind that they would have just as little desire to see him, as he did to see them.

At this point in time, however, Harry really didn’t have anywhere else he could go.

The only other places he’d ever felt safe (or at home) at, were the Burrow, and Hogwarts. Both of which were a most definitely out of the question. The Burrow, for the obvious reason that a) going there would mean having to deal with all of the Weasleys again, and the empty space he felt in Fre- _his-_ absence. And b) even if Mrs. Weasley welcomed him with open arms, there was still the matter of Mr. Weasley being in league with Kingsley, and the plan to send him away. And as for Hogwarts… The final battle had left a majority of the place un-inhabitable. And even though both Professor McGonnagall and Neville had assured him that repairs were well underway, Harry didn’t think hiding out in a school for the rest of his life would work out very well.

Not that he’d be hiding out for the rest of his life… Right? Just for a little while. Until came to their senses and realized that he didn’t need their help with this. That he was _fine_. Given the circumstances…

Merlin.

_What the hell was he going to do?_

Harry shook his head. This wasn’t helping. Whatever he ended up doing. _Wherever_ he ended up going. Right then he was too exhausted to attempt to make any (more) life altering decisions.

The only thing he was going to do, was push down and anxitys he had, and hopefuly, convince his Uncle to let him stay for a while.

<>O<>

 Marching up the Dursleys driveway Harry began to get the feeling that something was… off. In the deeming lights of the sunset Harry began to notice a few things about the place that set off a flashing sign in his head that read “WRONG”. The first was the lawn. For as long as Harry could remember, his Aunt had prided herself on it. She always had to have the greenest, most well-kept yard on the block. She would spend hours watering, trimming, and weeding it into sheer perfection; No weed nor rogue flower dared to show their leafy face in the lawn of Petunia Dursley. Looking at it now, however, Harry could hardly belive it had ever looked so nice. There several large patches of dead grass mixed with even larger areas overgrown and covered in a multitude of weeds

It was as though the whole yard had come right out of gardener’s nightmare.

There were a few other things that were off as well. The slight peeling of the paint at the very edges of the shutters, and the mud-crusted ‘Welcome’ mat in front of the door- a few missing shingles off the roof. All this leading Harry to wonder one thing:  Where were the Dursleys?

There was no way they were home. Not with the yard in such a state. They wouldn’t have stood for it. So, where were they? Or better yet, why hadn’t they come back? The war was over, they could come home anytime they wanted- And then, like a slap to the face, it hit him.

His relatives hadn’t come back yet because they had absolutely _no idea_ that the danger had past.

With an almost guilty sense of amusement Harry let out a sharp laugh. For all the Dursleys knew, they still needed to keep running for their lives, watching their backs at every corner- just waiting for the freakish wizards to come after them with their evil magic sticks and odd fashion senses!

Harry knew that it really wasn’t as funny as his mind was making it out to be, and he really shouldn’t laugh at his relatives’ misfortunes- But the thought of the burley walrus of a man that was Vernon Dursley spending all these months in hiding, jumping out of his skin at the slightest rustle of the wind; paranoid as one of Mrs. Figg’s cats on bath-day- sent another laugh bursting forth from Harry’s mouth before he could stop it.

For a moment, it was almost enough to make him forget his reason for returning here in the first place. Almost.

As he stood there, in the middle of the Dursley’s lawn, laughing to himself, he realized something else. Something that probably would have come to his attention much sooner, had he not been as exhausted as he was-

He was no longer wearing his invisibility cloak.

Frantically, he started looking around for it. It was with a great sigh of relief that he spotted it laying in the grass not two feet away from him.

Quickly attempting to pull himself together, he shoved his wand into his pocket and then went to gather the cloak in his arms, dusting it off before folding it into his pocket as well.

Realizing that the longer he stayed outside, in the late hours of the day laughing to himself like a lunatic, the greater of a chance there was that he’d be noticed by someone. Such a well-meaning (or simply nosy) neighbor who’d take in his unkept appearance and immediately call the police on him- leading to the likely questioning of not only his identity, but also as to the current whereabouts of the Dursleys.

Definitely not something he wanted to get into at this moment.

Then there was the possibility, that by this point his friends would have noticed his disappearance, and there would already by ministry spies out looking for him. Though Harry had been confidant in his choice of hiding places, the possibility of being seen by Mrs. Figg or some other lookout from the wizarding world would be grater so long as he stayed sanding around on the Dursleys lawn.

Not wanting to risk exposure any longer than necessary, Harry walked up to the door and turned the knob. To his surprise, it was locked.

 _Of course_. Harry thought. _One of the order must have locked it before- before we left that night… before Moody. Before Hedwig. Back when Fr-_

_Back when **Fred** was- _

_When he was still_ _al_ -

 ** _Focus_**.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts Harry pulled his wand out of his pocket, held it up to the door knob, and said: “Alohomora”

It didn’t work.

A few pale-yellow sparks lit up around the lock, then fizzled into nothing. Harry tried the spell again. This time nothing happened at all. No sparks. No flashing lights. No magic.

The door remained stubbornly locked.

“Shit.”

Out of the corner of his eye Harry noticed movement. Breath hitching slightly, Harry banged the wand against the bricks surrounding the door frame.

“Alohomora! Alohomora! Why won’t you work!” Each attempt was getting more frantic than the last. No wonder he felt so tired, apparating must have left him magically drained. That was a thing. Maybe.

From somewhere behind him, there came the sound of twigs snapping. Harry froze. _They found me._ He thought. _They realized I was gone and now they’re here to lock me up._ Running out of options, he then, using his own body as a battering ram, slammed into the door in an attempt t to break it down. But, while once, he might have been able to use his weight to possibly shove it open, he was much more physically weak than before. And even with all the strength he had, all he got for his efforts was a sore side and a door that didn’t even budge an inch.

There were more twig snapping sounds that couldn’t have come from more than a few feet behind him. _They found me and they’re going to take me._ Harry thought again, though he wasn’t quite sure who ‘they’ was supposed to be. The ministry? Kingsley’s men? Or maybe some rouge Death Eater who’d managed to avoid arrest; they never did catch Lucius Malfoy, though not for lack of trying.

Whatever it was- _Whoever_ it was, there was nothing Harry could do now but face them. Nowhere he could run, not when his only option was a locked door. Clutching his wand in his fist, Harry zipped himself around, his back pressed firmly against the door, now facing the drive- his heart pounding in his chest his breath coming out in short gasps;  only to find himself face-to-face with…Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. The Street was empty. No Death Eaters. No aurors. No Wizards of any kind. The only movement Harry could see came from the rustle of the leaves in the wind, and the flapping of a lone plastic bag that was caught in the upper branches of one Mrs. Figg’s Pine trees.

_It’s just the wind. That’s all. No Death Eaters. No ministry spies. It’s just the wind._

Repeating this mantra over and over in his head, trying to will his heart into slowing its pace, the adrenalin that had pumped through him not seconds ago, was now quickly seeping away. Leaving him both worn, even more exhausted than before. Not to mention the ache in is side from his failed try at breaking door was making it difficult to remain on his feet.

Exhausted and in a bit of pain, Harry slid down against the door till he was sitting on-top of the Dursley’s ‘Welcome’ doormat, pulling his knees against his chest and wrapping both his arms around them. Just trying to quell the panic was on the verge of over-taking him.

_It’s just the wind. That’s all. No Death Eaters. No ministry spies. It’s just the wind…_

_It’s just the wind. It’s just the wind. Everything’s fine. It’s just the wind. I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s just the wind. **I’m fine.**_

After a while, a few hours or maybe only a few minutes- Harry hadn’t really been keeping track- he eventually calmed down as best he could. With his face in his hands wracking his brain trying to figure out what to do next.

Obviously he’s not going to be able can’t use any spells to get in anytime soon, And there’s no way he’s breaking the door down- if only he had a one of the Dursley’s keys- a key! Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Petunia insisted that they kept a spare hidden beneath one of her flower planters after Dudley accidently locked himself out for an entire night once a few summers back. Said planter, was currently sitting not three feet away from Harry. Blaming his lapse in memory on his tired state, he walked over to it and was relieved to find a slightly rusted silver key, tucked safely underneath. Pulling himself to his feet, Harry shoved the key into the doorknob, and stumbled into the house- re-locking the door behind him.

<>O<>

Harry did not sleep well that night. Moments after entering the house, he had found that none of the lights would turn on. Thinking about it, it made sense. Seeing as the Dursley’s hadn’t been home in months, there was no need for them to pay the electricity bills- leaving Harry stuck in the dark. Too tired to bother with heading up the stairs and into an actual bed, he crashed on the Dursley’s hideous flower print sofa, falling asleep almost as soon as he shut his eyes.

He spent most of the night tossing and turning, startling awake at even the slightest creak- the growing force of the wind outside didn’t help. Then, at around five in the morning- if Harry’s internal clock was accurate- a loud clatter came from outside the front window, the sound echoed throughout the otherwise silent house, startling Harry off the sofa and onto the -thankfully- soft carpet floor.

Bumbling around trying to stand up as quietly as possible and failing miserably. The curtains were all drawn shut effectively shrouding the entire room in darkness. Unable to see two inches let alone two feet in-front of him, Harry accidently stumbled into-and directly over- his Aunt’s antique coffee table, and from the sound of it, effectively breaking at least one of its legs and shattering two or more of the stained-glass plates that covered the top. Whenever his relatives returned, Harry knew that Petunia would be devastated. Then furious. Then probably a tad murderous.

The table had been one of her favorite pieces of furniture for nearly a decade. Ever since the day Vernon bought it off a co-worker nearly a to replace a previous table that had ironically, been damaged by Harry. It hadn’t been his fault that time. He’d been trying to get away from Ripper- the evil beast of a dog that belonged to Vernon’s elder sister Marge, when he’d tripped over his cousins conveniently stretched out leg (He’d gotten two weeks locked in the cupboard for that). For years after, Petunia had delighted in regaling the members of her book-club with the tale of how Vernon’s grandfather had the table brought over on a cargo ship from the Americas during the first world war, recued it from the home of a foreign diplomat that had lost his life in a fire. A wondrous load of crap if there ever was one. However, the listless women in her book club always seemed to eat it up. _Oh well_. Harry thought. _She’ll get over it._

Outside, there was sort of scratching sound at the door. _It must be whoever was out-front earlier. They’ve come back!_ Harry reached for his wand, dismayed when he remembered that he had set both it and his glasses on the coffee table before he’d fallen asleep. He frantically felt around for both items, managing to only locate his glasses- Thankfully un-scathed- and a few shards of broken glass that imbedded themselves into the palm of Harry’s left hand.

Trying not to cringe from the sudden pain, Harry abandoned his search for his wand in favor of grabbing the broken table leg to use a weapon if the need to defend himself should occur. It reminded Harry of a time so many years ago, when his uncle had moved them all to a live in an old hut as an effort to prevent Harry from getting his Hogwarts letters. If Harry recalled correctly, Vernon had been prepared to use a shot-gun to defend himself against any wizards that dared enter. To Harry, it was sort of like bringing a knife to a gun fight- with gun, in this instance, being the knife. The idea of someone using a gun to fight a wizard had become a laughable thought. Utterly ridiculous.

And yet, here Harry was, with less than that. Wounded from both his hand and the lingering ache in his side, exhausted beyond all reason, with only a broken table leg to protect himself.

How ironic.

Carefully, holding the table leg under his chin, and using only his good hand, he crawled his way over behind the sofa and waited.

And waited.

Ten minutes later the scratching continued, and yet, no one attempted to get in. The rational part of Harry’s brain decided that if whoever was out there was a wizard, they’d no doubt would have just use magic to get in. And if they weren’t a wizard, and they wanted in bad enough, they’d probably just pick the lock. But, as time passed, the sounds outside persisted, and yet, no one- wizard or otherwise- tried to get in. Eventually, Harry made his way over to the door, after glanced through the peep-hole and seeing nothing -and no one- in front of it, he unlocked, and then opened the door.

<>O<>

The sight that greeted him was not the one he had been expecting. On the corner of the patio, the planter that had earlier hidden the spare house key, was now on upside down; dirt and broken chunks of blue ceramic were scattered round it. But most surprising, was the fact that it was moving. Jerking back and forth, and ramming repeatedly into the wall. Obviously, Harry realized with a sigh of relief, some sort of animal must have been messing around and accidentally tipped it over. Which explained both the clatter that woke Harry, and the scraping sounds that had followed. Harry felt a sense of relief wash over him. _I’m safe. They didn’t find me._ At this point, whatever had managed to trap itself was now franticly trying to escape, nearly pulling the planter off the patio and into Petunia’s garden. Tossing the coffee table leg back into the house, Harry rushed over to prevent the planter from falling over. Lifting it up slowly to reveal a small black furred cat. Both thin and covered in dirt.

Though Harry’s knowledge of felines extended only to his interactions with Hermione’s cat Crookshanks, and the days he’d spent around Mrs. Figg’s tabbies as a kid, he figured that due to its size, it was more than likely still a kitten. Bending down, Harry reached out his hand in an attempt to pick it up, only to be met with a hiss and the barred teeth.

“Don’t be like that, I just saved your life!”

The kitten hissed again.

“Fine. You want to stay out here, be my guest.”

Harry pulled himself up, careful not to put any weight on his left hand, that not only still had shards of glass in it, but was now also covered in darkened splotches of blood. Wonderful. As the adrenalin from earlier started to ware off, Harry found that he was becoming acutely in tuned with the pain of each cut on his palm.

Leaning heavily on the door frame, Harry looked back down at the kitten.

“D’you want to come in or not?” He asked it.

For a moment, Harry thought, it looked as though the kitten was truly giving his offer some serious consideration. Its head was tilted slightly to the left, showcasing the large chunk that was missing from the tip of its right ear. It’s dark eyes regarding Harry with scrutiny- as if it was trying to decide whether it should go ahead and try to bite him again or not. Ultimately, it seemed, the kitten must have reached the conclusion that being inside -where it was warm, was preferable to the porch- where there was still an evil planter that might try to trap it again- and it rushed passed Harry though the door, disappearing into the kitchen.

“I can see where your priorities are.” Harry mumbled, as he locked the door behind him. He followed the kitten into the kitchen, where with the moon light streaming in through the window he could see it was now perched on the edge of the dining room table. Walking over to the sink, Harry knelt onto the ground with his wounded hand held tightly against his chest, and pulled open the cabinet beneath it. After a minute or so of carefully rummaging around with his good hand, he pulled out a box of matches as well as two emergency candles. Using one of the matches to light the first candle he placed it on the counter, lighting the second he carried it with him to the upstairs bathroom, and set it bedside the sink.

Harry turned on the faucet (thank Merlin the water was still on). He grabbed the Dursley’s First-aid-kit from medicine cabinet. Gently holding his hand under the running water, using the pair of tweezers that came in the kit, he started pulling the larger shards of glass out of his hand. Piece by piece. Drops of dark red blood falling slowly into the white porcelain basin. He wasn’t a doctor, and it wasn’t like they taught first aid in Hogwarts, but looking at the torn-up skin of his palm, the deep gashes that opened to reveal layers of his own skin that no human should see- he was fairly certain that (By Muggle standards at least) he’d need stitches. For a passing moment, he really wished Hermione was there. She knew healing spells, she could- No! _She was going to let them send me away. I can take care of this on my own._

After he had gotten the last of the glass out, he used some of the kit’s gauze to wrap up his hand. It wasn’t much- But it was as good as he was going to get. It was probably going to scar. It didn’t matter though, it’d go with the one on the back of his other hand. _I must not tell lies_. Just looking at it brought back the unpleasant memories of his detentions with Umbridge. There were other- more pleasant, _recent_ , memories as well. The ones from these past weeks. Ginny. His hand lightly held in hers. Her thumb rubbing circles softly over his knuckles- Her kind voice-

Harry shoved the first-aid-kit back into the cabinet and slammed it shut. The mirror on the outer side of the door leaving him with nothing to look at but his own reflection.

It was not a pretty sight.

His face had become thin, his cheek bones more prominent than he’d ever seen them before. Large dark circles were shadowed under his tired, blood-shot eyes. And a short layer of patchy stubble covered most of the area from his upper cheeks to the end of his chin His hair was undoubtedly the finishing touch on his mock-plague victim appearance. Over the past months he’d neglected it so much so that it had grown long enough for the ends to just barely hover past his chin- it wouldn’t be long before is reached his shoulders. It was also, thanks to a lack of personal grooming, unbelievable greasy. So much so that if Harry didn’t know better, he’d wonder if he was perhaps in some way a relative of Snape’s. It was no wonder some many people had insisted he needed to take better care of himself: He looked, for a lack of a better analogy, like he’d been on the receiving end of more than one dementor’s kiss.

 _Well_ he thought _only one thing to do_.

<>O<>

One long overdue shower and a shave later and Harry exited the bathroom feeling more like an actual a living human being, and less like a lifeless human shaped shell. He went into his old room and grabbed some of his old clothes to change into. A  pair of work pants and a soft blue T-shirt that Aunt Petunia had bought him a few years before to wear while he worked in her garden. They were old and worn. The work pants had rips across both knees that ran down the edges or the seams, and the shirt, which was decorated with a series of small holes around the hem and collar, was baggy on his thin frame. But seeing as almost all Harry’s other clothes were back at Grimmauld Place, he would make do.

For now.

All things aside, it was better than seeing if there were any of Dudley’s clothes packed away somewhere. Despite having lost a fair amount of weight in the past few years, Harry’s cousin had still been at least twice his size last Harry saw him and therefore, if Harry were to go around wearing just about anything that used to belong to Dudley, it would most likely resemble the times when small children play around in their parent’s clothes.

From somewhere down below, there was a crashing sound.

After a brief moment of panic, Harry remembered his four-legged furry house-guest and headed back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Greeted by the sight of the kitten, thin, damaged ear, whiskers lightly bent- covered from head to toe in flower, Harry rolled his eyes.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack” He told it as it stalked out of the room, leaving a trail of tiny white paw-prints in its wake.

Not feeling like dealing with his own messes (Such as the broken coffee table in the Livingroom) let alone the kitten’s, he opted to instead scavenge for food. Looking around his first instinct was to check the fridge. He conveniently forgot that, not only would anything the Durley’s left in it more than likely be expired by now, all power in the house had also been out for an indistinguishable amount of time. He opened the fridge door, got one whiff of the rancid smell it excreted, and slammed closed again.

Unsurprisingly, most of the food that the Dursley’s had left was in a similar state. A loaf of bread sitting on the counter was green with mold. And all of the cereal left in the cupboards had gone stale. Everything else seemed to have been packed up and taken with the Dursley’s when they had gone into hiding.

Eventually, he found a stash of cans hidden in the very back the pantry behind Aunt petunia’s empty wine-rack. There was an assortment of about forty cans in total, mostly peaches, olives, green beans and tuna; A selection that Harry felt quite frankly would have appalled Ron. A can of peaches in hand, Harry grabbed a fork from the kitchen and made his way into the dining room and plopped himself onto one of the chairs. Opening the peaches, he dug in.

It wasn’t much, and he knew that he’d need to eventually go shopping if he intended to stay long- for both food and clothes, he had muggle money somewhere, right? - but, for now, he’d make due.

Not long after Harry sat down, there was a flash of black and white running into the room. In there was the kitten; jumping up on the table stopping right in the center to staring silently at Harry, head tilted as if to ask; “where’s my food?”.

“What?” Harry asked it “You think I’m gonna share?”

The kitten continued to stare.

Harry stared back. And though he might come to deny it later, Harry blinked first.

“Fine!” he said, shoveling the last of the peaches into his mouth then slamming the empty can down on the table. Grumbling about freeloading menaces, he got up and stalked back into the pantry. Coming out a few seconds later with one of the cans that contained tuna. _Cats like tuna, right?_ After opening it, he slid it across the table to the kitten immediately started chowing down. Harry watched it eat for a few minutes, and when it looked like it was staring to get full, he hesitantly reached out a hand to try to pet it.

His efforts were met with two sharp teeth digging into his finger, not hard, but enough to make him jerk his hand back quickly.

“This relationship is never going to work if you keep trying to bite me!”

It promptly hissed and ran off.

Harry was vaguely reminded of Crookshanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not too happy with the ending of this chapter... but seeing as I've rewritten it half a dozen time already, I figured I'd just go ahead and post it. If anyone has any ideas/advice I'd more than welcome at. Also, this chapter is un-betaed, so all mistakes are my own  
> Anyways, thank you all for reading this! And a special thanks to those who Commented/Bookmarked/and gave kudos! And I hope you all liked the chapter!
> 
> Best- Jess

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you for taking the time to read this!  
> I want to make sure that everyone reading this know that since I don't have much knowledge on how the mental health system works in the UK -and seeing as how this is based in a fictional world filled with magic and old fashioned societal concepts, I've decided to take a little bit of artistic license when it comes to the inner workings of Saint Mungos. But I'd like to make it as accurate as I can without interfering with the plot; so any advise or info you guys can share is great, (google only knows so much).   
> I also want to say that this work is un-betaed and a little rushed towards the end, so if there are any glaring mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> Kudos and Comments make me happy, but are not required. =^,^=   
> ~Best, Jess


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